


Her Sleeping

by deeday



Category: No Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deeday/pseuds/deeday





	Her Sleeping

She stayed up at night and worried. Worried about what she had to do for others, what she wanted for others, especially what I wanted (for whatever silly reason), and if she called her parents enough. But I saw so much beauty in that worry; It was so frequently selfless worry, stressing about other people’s lives and how she could perfect them. My sickly mother worried her desperately (she loved my mother), and I could picture her last night. She was probably biting her lips, maybe until they bled if she was very upset, tossing and turning under the sheets, peeling off clothes as she warmed from all the thrashing. She was so pretty while she slept: those bow shaped lips parted in a pinkish O, bland air whistling through her mouth as she breathed. Her hair would be so mussed up, curls absolutely everywhere, hectic over her pale face. Her brows often pulled together while she slept, unable to escape the night time worrying even in sleep. She slept naked and even when we didn’t have sex I still loved sleeping next to her naked body. She was always warm. I would sometimes pull her hair up and blow on her neck, making goosebumps surface and her cheek twitch. During the night she sometimes said my name, and when I was awake to hear it I would be so happy that I could hardly fall back to sleep after. Sometimes I would wake up in our bed in the middle of the night, the sky still pitch dark, and would want nothing more than her lips on mine. I could twist over and kiss her and she would kiss me back in her sleep. That’s how effortlessly we worked. If my favorite part of sleeping with her, with my only love, wasn’t the actual sleeping, then it was the waking up that I favorited. I so often protected her during the day that you would expect me to wrap myself around her at night as well. But she knew sometimes I needed to be held too, which was something no one else knew. She knew my fears and secrets; knew things that made me happy and sad; knew about my sick, angelic mother and bastard of a father; knew that sometimes I needed arms around me. And she knew without us ever discussing it. The only known thing was that at night, I lay on my back first while she laid on her stomach. I would tickle and kiss and rub her back while we grew increasingly tired. During those times we showed our ridiculous, intoxicating love the most: the most tender, love-drunk words were uttered during these times of the night and it was when I felt warm from the inside out. As our whispers became closer and closer to each other’s ears and became quieter and quieter, without saying, she turned onto her side to face the window and touched my cheeks, kissing and caressing them. Sometimes it was a long process, falling asleep. She would kiss my eyelids, sometimes moving her body to kiss each tattoo dotting my shoulders and arm, running her tongue over my neck and collarbones, and tell me things I could never repeat; never for fear of embarrassment though, only out of fear of shattering the crystalline words she gave to me these sleepy hours. We often fell asleep that way, stars in our eyes and sweet words on our tongues. And though we fell asleep with her on her side and I on my back, it seemed every morning we woke up with her hips curved around mine, the top of my head under her chin, our hands interlocked over my stomach. Sometimes, sleeps were not as easy. They came infrequently, but they did come, the nightmares about my father. In waking light I barely remembered the dreams, just flashes of glass bottles and bloody cheeks and knuckles. When I had these dreams I began to feel cold again, and I knew I shivered in my sleep. But she would wake me up each time, without fail. I woke to her warm lips pressed all over me, her long fingers stroking through my hair and wiping away stray sleep-tears. And these mornings, the ones where I woke up with her body hovering over mine, kissing away my fears and regrets and insecurities, they gave me strength. And hope. And happiness. She was my light and my world and though everything about her makes me a better man, makes me shine brighter and makes me more compassionate and brave and understanding, I suppose it is possible to choose a favorite thing about her. I would choose sleeping with her. It’s my favorite thing about us. And not the sex, which is perfect in and of itself, but the actual act of sleeping together. It is so pure and loving and kind, so intimate and brave. I could blame it on just my opinion being this, but that would not be true. It is her and it is the night, so honest and true, no lies and no covers, just what there is. Just her, being her, bringing everything meaning, under the cover of the kindest darkness.


End file.
